Digging | Short Story

Running her finger down the lead-lined bedroom window, Rose feels the protuberant solder. The stained glass distorts her view just so, just as old windows should do. Whilst she loves the feel of the old, single-pained glass, they are beginning to rattle in their frames rather too much. It might be time for replacements before winter – another job for George.

               Rose can see her husband through the oranges, the yellows, and the greens. George is working, as he so often is, in the garden. The cha-cha-cha of a spade through soil reaches to the upper storey of their Tudor pile, and Rose smiles at her husband’s appetite for work. The younger man is almost feverish as he deepens the hole in which he stands. The spot overlooking the pond will be perfect for a weeping willow – it will set the water lilies and statues off wonderfully. With a cast iron bench in place – another job for George – it will be the perfect place to unwind.

               Such a place had been needed that morning. In a most distressing development, two detectives had called around to make enquiries, the tyres of their rather of-the-people saloon leaving gouges in the gravel driveway that George had to remedy as soon as they left. Of course, they had been asking about the disappearance of Rose’s previous husband. The detectives had been incredulous when they confirmed that Rose had been married on five previous occassions – they seemed to think she was some sort of Cotswolds Zsa Zsa Gabor.

               The officers had also looked askance at her collection of occult items in the library. The younger detective had been particularly jumpy – one would think that the collection of jars, animal skulls, and books were an antechamber to hell itself from his reaction. The pair had been somewhat mollified once she explained that the occult was a hobby like any other, and that older women were not limited to feng shui when it came to decorating. Nevertheless, the detectives’ journey back to their car had been rather quicker than their walk into the house. Rose had seen the building affect people before. The beams, the whitewashed walls, the artfully crumbled garden walls – they seemed to whisper to those unaccustomed to such a place.

               Rose comes out of her reverie and looks once more at George, who is resting upon his spade in the afternoon sun, sweat gleaming on his torso. Perhaps sensing he is being watched, the younger man looks up at the windows. He waves up at his wife before getting back to work with something approaching fervour. George had been particularly upset by the detectives’ questions, and Rose had known that the only place he would find peace was in the garden. He wipes sweat from his brow in between thrusts of the spade, and Rose wonders if she should take a glass of lemonade out to him in the heat. Perhaps later.

               Before she goes downstairs to the library, Rose watches her husband work in the shimmering heat for a minute more. George is not used to physical labour, and his arms and knees tremble. She has done wonders for her new husband’s health, and he has all but lost his City of London pallor. The hole George is digging is nearly ready for a willow sapling. The tree will hang over the north side of the pond. It will join its five counterparts reflected in the still water, their finger-like branches trailing towards the house.

*Thanks for reading, folks. Images courtesy of Flickr and Pxfuel. My recent short stories include ‘Wean’s Crabbit‘ and ‘Property for Sale – Grim-on-Wye’.

---

Matthew Richardson is a writer of short stories. His work has featured in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Close to the Bone, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, Cafelit, Best MicroFiction 2021, Writer’s Egg, Idle Ink, The Wild Word, and Shooter magazine. He is a doctoral student at the University of Dundee, a lucky husband, and a proud father. He blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com and tweets at https://twitter.com/mjrichardso0

Tweets by mjrichardso0